Of the Essence
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: William Faulkner once said "Time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life." The Clock King learns this lesson the hard way, thanks to a twist of fate and a watchmaker's granddaughter.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** DC owns everything, with the express exception of the things they don't.

**This Story Contains:** Brief allusions to rape (non-graphic), humiliation and violence.

_A/N: I love the Clock King. Presumably, I'm not the only one. Yet this is the first story about him on this site. Hmmm. I smell untapped fic potential. This story was originally intended to be a one shot, but it's ballooned out to six thousand words thus far and it's not even half over yet. For reading ease, it's being broken into chapters because I secretly fear it'll turn into a novella if I'm not watching it._

_Also, I'd like to acknowledge that there's a clock/curiosity shop in my hometown which helped inspire this fic. I haven't been there since I was a wee thing, but my memories of it are so vivid that I can't pretend I didn't base the shop in this story, in part, on it._

* * *

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

With surgical precision, the brass hands on the Clock King's ornate pocket watch slice their way around the mother of pearl watch dial. Their movements are strict, sharp, _exact_. There is no margin for error, never a single second lost, because time-as the Clock King's core philosophy decrees-is the most precious commodity of all. Like every dew drop in a desert oasis: to be cherished, appreciated and _never_ to be wasted.

This is the watch that has seen a dozen heists; the watch that has perfectly timed the execution of a hundred plans; the watch which is guaranteed to never lose a _second_ in a century.

The watch that, tonight, has struck its last hour.

The hands do not slow. Their progress does not ebb in a gradual manner, the way an old watch winds down, they simply stop altogether.

This moment of unplanned chaos does not belong in the Clock King's orderly, suffocating and organized existence. He carries a dozen more watches-another dozen clocks reside in his lair-there is no shortage of time pieces in his life.

Yet, he will not let _this_ watch die.

This Will Not Do. This simply Will Not Do at all.

This is the watch which he carried on that fateful day when his life was completely upended and he launched his career as the Clock King. The other watches, they are all byproducts of his turn to villainy; this one is a keepsake from his days as a law abiding civilian. He would not let you call him sentimental; he reasons that he likes having it as a reminder of why he became what he is, but really, he _does_ feel a pang of almost painfully bittersweet nostalgia whenever he looks at his trusty pocket watch.

The ache of wistfulness is all the more acute when the finely crafted hands freeze in place and refuse to move forward. Temple Fugat frowns deeply, his face creasing unattractively and comes to a decision. Though he could easily replace the pocket watch, he will not. He refuses to let this watch stop permanently.

Determined, he sets out to find a watch maker. Surely in a city as large as Gotham there must be at _least_ one. He will dispose of the proprietor when he no longer needs his services-but his primary concern is the watch.

Only rich men wear pocket watches anymore. Rich men who are so rich they usually decide to throw away a fifty thousand dollar Rolex and buy a new one rather than have it repaired.

As such, watch makers are not in terribly high demand.

There is a single shop-Brookstien's-which has survived the ravages of a throwaway generation and it is one of Gotham's oldest family businesses. Micah Brookstien immigrated from Germany with his three young sons-Melvin, Gabriel and Jacob-shortly before the first world war and set up shop immediately. Melvin left to seek his fortune and Gabriel died in WWII in the line of duty, but Jacob-who had always been in too delicate health to leave home, neither as self made man nor soldier-took over when Micah's hands got too crippled with age to continue with the delicate operations involved with watch repair.

Now, Jacob runs the shop. He has been at this job for more than half a century and though his last birthday cake has so many candles they couldn't be counted, he is still a sharp eyed expert in his chosen field. This expertise is the only thing that keeps him in business where other watchmakers fail right out of the gate.

It is also his expertise that will be his undoing, as if he were a mediocre watchmaker, a criminal of the Clock King's stature would not have sought him out.

The watch shop is immaculate as Temple Fugat enters it and he is pleased. The glass display cases may be old, but they are gleaming and their contents are obviously arranged with great care.

Brookstien is behind the antique register-a brass affair that's nearly as aged as he is-and there is no light of recognition in his eyes as the Clock King enters in plain clothes. The old man is tinkering with a clock and Fugat approaches, laying his watch on the counter and narrowing his eyes appraisingly at the proprietor.

"I need this fixed."

"So I vould assume," Jacob replies dryly, reaching out with a gnarled hand-used up from decades of delicate work-and turning the watch over. Jacob reaches under the counter and retrieves a pair of old gold wire spectacles, placing them carefully on the bridge of his beaky nose. He studies the watch, frowning. "Ven do you vant it?"

His accent already grates on Fugat's nerves.

"When can you deliver it?"

"I do not yet know vat is vrong vith it."

"You try my patience."

"I get ze impression a great many things try your patience, sir," Jacob says pointedly, looking over the rims of his spectacles at Temple. "But come back in ze morning."

"What _time_?"

"Morning," Jacob repeats, as though he is speaking to a small, dense child. "If ze shop is open, it vill be ready."

"Do I have your guarantee on that statement?"

"No. Zere are no gaurantees. If I cannot complete ze repairs, zen at least you vill know vat ails your vetch."

"To come back here without knowing that my watch is repaired would be a waste of time."

Jacob shrugs his hunched shoulders. "Time is to be vasted."

Temple's blood pressure skyrockets and for a moment, he contemplates how easy it would be to bring up his cane and strike the old man down.

He takes a breath, even as the homicide plays out in his head, and then steps away from the counter.

"Tomorrow morning."

Ten o'clock sharp, Fugat returns to Brookstien's only to find the shop already open. The blinds in the front window that had been drawn the night before are open, letting sunshine stream in on a dozen brass, silver and shining wood clocks that are artfully scattered on display.

Temple barely takes note of how exquisite the morning sun looks, filtering through the window-only finding himself annoyed with the proprietor for the bad business practice involved with opening early.

He pushes through the front door and finds, not Jacob Brookstien behind the counter-but a young woman, leaning over a pocket watch and tinkering expertly with its innards. She is small and slight-almost childlike-but even as he looks at her with disdain, he can't deny that she is also strikingly beautiful. It's not the sort of screen siren beauty that is so idolized and sought after; instead, she is the sort of lovely that is often overlooked due to its understatement. Her posture is awkward, like she doesn't yet know how to sit up straight, and her own obliviousness to her prettiness helps to make the understatement of her beauty even more muted. If she were standing next to a painted, perfectly coiffed bombshell, the eye would be drawn to the flash, no doubt, leaving her to fade into the background, like a single cornflower next to a dozen roses.

Her graceful fingers are still hard at work and she has not yet looked up, but Temple yanks her unceremoniously out of her task by striding up to the counter and laying his hands on it _hard_.

She jumps violently and gasps, the sudden intake of air setting off a coughing fit. She looks up at him with large china-blue eyes, set into a face so white she looks like a doll that is in danger of shattering under the sheer pressure of his gaze and for a _split_ second-no more-Temple feels remorse for having startled her.

His first impression is that she's not a day over seventeen, but her eyes have the slight creases around them of a woman in her mid-twenties. Not yet noticeable enough to make her look old, but enough to betray her age.

"I'm here for my watch," he states straight away.

"Rebecca!" a voice harkens from the back of the shop-presumably that of Jacob. "Is zat ze impatient man?"

She stutters for a moment and darts away from the counter, looking at Temple-Temple, the man who intentionally gave her a fright-a sympathetic glance. She lifts a single finger, instructing him to wait a moment. Like a ghost, she flutters to the door that leads to the back of the shop and slips inside, leaving Fugat alone, the sound of ticking clocks the only thing to keep him company.

He rather likes it.

His fingers tap out an imperceptible pattern on the glass countertop, but the seemingly nonsensical arrangement of beats compliments the ticking rather well.

Fugat glances at his wristwatch-a device no less expensive than the pocket watch he left here, but much less personally significant-and decides to give the girl another fifteen seconds before he loses his patience completely and barges through the door after her.

She makes his deadline with four seconds to spare. Jacob trails behind her and his age-which wasn't quite so obvious when he sat behind the counter-is painfully clear in his wobbly, limping gait. Rebecca's grace is all the more apparent next to the elderly Brookstien.

"It's about time," Fugat barks, taking a perverse sort of pleasure in the way Rebecca flinches at the sound of his voice.

Jacob is unaffected.

"Zis is a vatch shop, of _course_ it is about time."

"My _watch_-"

"Is badly damaged," Jacob says, cutting the other man off. Fugat notices that Rebecca suddenly averts her eyes and stands with her hands folded in front of her, like a guilty child. "Zere vere several springs out of place-and a cracked gear."

"_That_ is impossible," Fugat counters. Only, after saying it, he realizes that perhaps the activities often associated with a criminal lifestyle-taking a beating from Batman or eluding the police, for example-might have caused such damage after all.

"Zat is vhat _I_ thought, but zese things happen. Though _how_ I haven't the foggiest notion."

"Can you fix it or not?"

"Vith a replacement part from Svitzerland, ya."

Temple blows out a puff of breath. "How long?"

"A veek, two at _most_."

He has a heist planned in six days. He wants the watch with him but it may take too long. Temple removes a folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabs at his forehead.

"Send for the part. _Immediately._ I-"

"Vill be back every morning to see if it has arrived," Jacob finishes, reading Temple's face like a book.

"I will indeed. And so help me, if you try to cheat me in any fashion-"

"I have many clients I vould rather svindle than you, sir."

The sudden exhalation of breath from Rebecca can only be that of a carefully restrained chuckle and the corners of her mouth are upturned as she looks up at Temple.

He narrows his eyes at her, his lips pursing into a severe, grim line.

Her face falls and her eyes dart away once more.

The bell on the front door jingles as the Clock King exits.


	2. Chapter 2

Preparations are made for his impending job. There is a bank with a clock above its doors--a clock that hasn't been operational in over a year. On principle, Temple finds this despicable and a crime worthy of retribution at the hands of the Clock King.

Since he works alone, planning a bank job is more difficult. He can't rely on hired hands--for him, a bank job is all about _timing_.

Perhaps that's why he likes them so much. They play to his strengths.

The next morning, after very little sleep, he returns to the watch shop as promised.

Again, the shop is open early, again Rebecca is behind the counter instead of the old man and again, Temple alarms her. She doesn't jump quite as high as the day before, but it is enough that when she recovers, she glares at him for the briefest of moments. The glare intrigues him. It's so out of place on what looks like such a fragile face and he wants to dig deeper, to see whether or not he can push that little spark until it becomes a raging inferno of anger, but the moment is spoiled when she averts her eyes and smoothes the front of her dress.

Temple is disappointed, but doesn't know why. Maybe he's just spoiling for an argument…

"My watch?"

Her voice is feather light. "The part hasn't arrived yet, sir."

She doesn't look up in time to see him depart. Rebecca never was very good at looking people in the eye…

---

The third day goes much the same as the first two. Temple arrives at ten sharp to find the shop open and Rebecca hard at work as he approaches.

He gets within two footsteps of the counter, preparing to slam his fists down on it in the same manner he did yesterday just to startle the girl, but she looks up at him and he stops dead. She looks at him through narrowed eyes--eyes that are _hostile_ for a split second.

It is a look that says, "Don't you _dare_."

Temple's lips twitch but he contains the smirk that is trying to spread, instead putting his hands up in defeat. She turns her attention back to her work, as if she's already bored of him.

"Not today." Her voice is husky this time, as though she has a sore throat. "Tomorrow, probably."

He finds her disinterest in him irritating, but doesn't know why. He shakes it off. "Tomorrow, then."

---

Tomorrow comes.

This time, entering the shop, Temple feels that something is wrong. The door is open, the 'open' sign fixed firmly in place, but the shop itself is empty. He is instantly ill at ease. The place is entirely too quiet. His eyes sweep over his surroundings and he realizes why. Several of the clocks have been smashed.

The door to the back room is open a crack and he strains his ears.

Scuffling.

His footing is sure but cautious as he approaches the door, his hand grasping his cane a little below its head, ready to strike. Sidling up to the door and getting close enough to the crack to peer inside, his breathing is shallow and silent. He feels lightheaded and oddly thrilled, but doesn't know why. Temple muses that this must be what it's like to be a voyeur.

Jacob lies on the floor on his back within his line of sight, a small puddle of blood gathering under his head. He's still breathing, his chest moving evenly, but he's definitely out cold. A workbench has been upended, delicate tools scattered on the floor around the old man and to the left, a man holds Rebecca pinned to a wall. With one hand, he keeps a terrifyingly sharp knife pressed to her throat and the other is at his waist, fumbling with his belt. His knee is between the girl's thighs, holding them apart and her tattered dress has been hitched up on one side. Her hands, futilely clenching and unclenching into fists at her sides betray her fury and helplessness.

"Pretty little thing, huh, baby? I'm gonna make you feel good…well, nah, you're gonna feel like shit, but you're gonna make _me_ feel **great**."

The bastard laughs at his own unfunny joke.

Blood pressure spikes, causing Temple's eye to twitch. Certainly, he intended to do away with the proprietors of this store when they had outlived their usefulness, but this is so much more perverse and disgusting than mere murder. How dare some common hooligan defile…

Defile…

Defile what?

What is this place to Temple--what are this girl and her grandfather--other than instruments of convenience?

Fabric tears, the noise wrong and alien in the quiet shop and Fugat moves so swiftly that he doesn't make a sound. He pushes the door just wide enough to slip through and slinks up behind the would-be rapist. Temple keeps his eyes fixed on Rebecca, his focus split between her face and the angle of the knife. She flicks her eyes to him for a moment and then averts them. She won't give his presence away. Clever girl.

It doesn't matter, the man attempting to assault her is too busy preparing to seat himself inside her to notice anything is amiss. He is blissfully oblivious until Temple brings his cane up and slashes it through the air, the gentle _whirr_ punctuated by a satisfying **crack**! The man turns his head, looking up in time to see the cane descend and hit him squarely over the eye. He goes down, blood gushing from the wound, robbed of consciousness.

There is stillness for a moment, time suspended like an insect in amber. The moment of silence stretches. He doesn't breathe, caught up in the oddness of this shallow-dreamlike state.

Temple half expects Rebecca to throw herself at his chest and start sobbing now that the trauma is over, but she doesn't. Instead, she picks up a cuckoo clock from a nearby table and smashes it over the unconscious man's head.

For a second, he thinks that she did it out of anger, but when she looks at him and speaks, he realizes different.

"I did that," she says evenly, her voice calm. "I struggled with him and knocked him out. You were never here."

Temple is gobsmacked. Does she know who he is?

"Leave," she urges, pointing at the door. Her hand is shaking. "I have to call the police."

---

He doesn't return the next day for fear that reporters will be crawling all over the place, but this is not the case. A young woman's story of defending her own honor against a villain much more despicable than the Clock King could ever be is nothing but a footnote in the paper. Batman's capture of the Scarecrow is so much more compelling and newsworthy.

Temple can't say he's terribly surprised.

He spends the day making the final preparations for his heist first thing in the morning and denies, vehemently to himself, that he wonders how Rebecca is faring.

---

Gotham is chilly the next morning, but the change in weather is something that the Clock King is prepared for. There isn't a single contingency he _isn't_ prepared for.

With costume in place and briefcase at the ready, he steps out of the alley and into the sunlight in front of the bank. This time of morning, children are in school, cubicle workers are snug behind their desks and Batman is most likely hanging upside down in a cave somewhere, catching a nap. The street is empty, except for a coffee vendor and a few people waiting for the bus. No one takes notice of the man in the plain gray suit as he strides confidently across the street. After all, he's no longer quite so ostentatious as he once was. The clock face glasses remain but the hour hand cane and gaudy timepiece tie have been abandoned.

Like clockwork, if you'll forgive the pun, an armored van pulls up in front of the bank, just as Temple crosses. The security officers (Frank Campbell: accurate but slow on the draw, sleep deprived, impending divorce; Joey Logan: nervous, green, cheating on his wife _and_ mistress with a man) get out of the van and go about their business. Temple adjusts the timing of his strides so that he enters the bank right behind them without them suspecting a thing.

The heist is an exercise in perfect timing. Temple enters the bank, eyes downcast as he makes it past the first group of security cameras, his hat hiding his identity from the poorly aimed equipment. He then takes a place in the longest line and watches Campbell and Logan as they head for the vault. When they emerge, his plan is truly set into motion.

With easy grace and confidence he grabs the woman in line in front of him, spinning her so that her back is pressed to his chest. One hand wraps around her throat and the other produces a gun to shove up under her chin.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announces, "this is Gotham City. I'm sure you all know the drill."

There is seemingly little finesse apparent in his taking a hostage, but the fact of the matter is that at this precise second, Gotham Power is conducting a test of its equipment which will result in three minutes and thirty four seconds of power loss to the circuits that are connected to the bank's alarm system. It's a glitch that occurs with the monthly test but no one has noticed this glaring hole in the security. Gotham Power--which has been losing business to a rival upstart company--keeps it quiet because fixing the problem would be more costly than ignoring it.

So, as the bank tellers all hit their little panic buttons, secure in the knowledge that if they give the thief what he wants he'll be caught by the police on the way out, they feign cooperation. The security officers cooperate as well, laying their weapons on the highly polished floor with obvious regret.

A duffle bag is filled with money, one of the freebies that the bank is offering with every new checking account opened and Temple estimates that it holds at least half a million dollars. The money doesn't matter, of course; this is a robbery based on disrespect for the fundamental principles that the Clock King holds most dear.

With the duffle bag full and time running short, Temple drags his hostage backward toward the door. Everything has gone according to plan up until this point and he is immensely pleased with himself.

As with the best laid plans of all great men, it is on the cusp of victory that the unforeseeable occurs. A variable that had no business in any of his equations makes itself known. Rebecca stands in the doorway, staring at him in mute shock.

It takes him but a second to alter his plan so that this problem can be rectified, but it's a second too long. Temple shoves the first hostage away from himself and pulls the watchmaker's granddaughter to him. A shot rings out and a stinging pain explodes in Temple's shoulder in those few moments before he gets Rebecca properly situated as human shield.

Logan winged him but it makes little difference. It's inconvenient, but doesn't impede his escape.

Further greasing the wheels, Rebecca offers no resistance.

He doesn't know why that bothers him.


	3. Chapter 3

Sirens wail in the distance. Against his better judgment, Temple has brought Rebecca to his hideout. It is an action of necessity. He can't take her back to the watch shop--the police will no doubt be making inquiries. She wasn't so careful about concealing her identity when she entered the bank and her face is bound to be fresh in the minds of the police who came to collect the garbage when she was nearly raped a mere thirty six hours prior.

He feels a slight stab in his chest. He suspects that it might be remorse, but he refuses to acknowledge its existence. There is no need to make this messier than it already is by involving emotions. The girl has been strangely cooperative throughout the ordeal and he does not want to do anything that might jeopardize that--including showing any kind of…_softness_.

After closing it, Temple rests his forehead against the heavy door for a moment to catch his breath. He knows it's foolish to turn his back on a hostage, but this situation is hardly the norm. As the deadbolt clicks into place, a tense, pregnant silence descends between them, not unlike the one after he saved her life two days ago.

Rebecca is the first to break it. "I suppose this makes us even."

Bracing his hands on the door, Temple pushes off, standing rigid once more. He compulsively moves to straighten his tie--a fidgety habit he developed as a child and still hasn't completely shaken--but the gunshot wound he sustained during the robbery impairs his movement. The bullet must have grazed a bit deeper than he originally thought, he muses, as his arm flares with pain, like a red hot coal trapped beneath the surface of his skin is trying to burn its way out.

He hides his reaction to the ache so well that when he turns to face the watch maker's granddaughter, she hasn't a clue.

"Tit for tat." He locks eyes with her and she squirms under his scrutiny, but doesn't look away like he expects her to.

"You're bleeding."

"A minor inconvenience," he replies flippantly.

Her eyes dart away from his face and focus on his arm before she brings them back up to meet his again. "You need proper medical attention."

He ignores her. "_Sit down._"

Instantly, she drops down into the folding chair nearest and stares at the floor. The delicate little thing he met just last week might be growing a spine before his very eyes, but it's not yet solid enough to stand up to a barked order. He moves fluidly, gracefully as he slinks up behind her, drawing his gun and pointing it at her temple with his good hand. The other hand busies itself with the task of cuffing both her wrists to the chair. She wisely doesn't move.

"I am not your friend," he states coldly but without malice. "I am your captor."

She's quiet for a heartbeat, no longer. "Are you going to kill me?"

He sneers. "Don't be vulgar."

"I know you can't let me go…"

Temple's jaw clenches. She's right…but he has no intention of _murdering_ her.

Wait, that isn't true…he knew when he first set foot in Brookstien's that he would have to dispose of its owner after the repair of his watch was complete. Killing her was always part of the plan. The opportunity to do so has merely presented itself earlier than he intended.

"I could work for you," Rebecca offers, almost hopefully, yanking him unceremoniously out of his thoughts. "I'm good with clocks--"

With a sniff, he looks down his nose at her. "Make no mistake, Miss Brookstien. I am _not_ the Joker. I am not in the habit of picking up strays and turning them into henchgirls. I work _alone."_

She glances up at him, obviously distressed.

"But I'm not going to kill you, either."

_Yet._

"For now, you will be my prisoner." He slides cautiously out of his suit jacket, keeping his injured arm as still as possible. The miniscule amount of movement that was required to bind the girl to the chair was bad enough, there's no need to aggravate his condition. His jacket is hung over the other unoccupied chair and he smoothes its lapels absentmindedly as he sits. "How long have you known?"

"I…" She clears her throat awkwardly. "The day you…saved me. I saw your picture at the police station."

"I see." He studies her, concludes she's telling the truth and ventures to make another query. "Are you frightened?"

Her eyes, which have been darting over his features in these tense moments, lock onto his. "No. I mean…a little. I don't know. I _should_ be."

"Yes." There is no shade of rebuke in his monotone voice. He is like a scientist, merely stating fact.

Without another word, he takes his leave.

---

Temple's face is all over the news the next morning. Now that she's been taken hostage by a heartless fugitive, the media has jumped all over the story of the courageous Rebecca Brookstien, survivor of an assault who was unfortunate enough to find herself in the Clock King's path a mere two days later.

There's a candlelight vigil to be held in Gotham Square and a televangelist is loudly proclaiming that everyone should pray for Rebecca's safe return. The idiot also makes a tearful plea to the Clock King himself to let the poor girl go free, she's been through enough.

(In the Iceburg Lounge, the odds are currently holding at two to one that those tears are glycerin.)

Temple is greatly amused by the fact that the unsinkable Rebecca Brookstien's 'remarkable story' never would have come to light if not for him. There is a sort of bittersweet irony about it that he appreciates immensely.

Sadly, he is no closer to a solution to the problem the girl poses than he was the night before. He can't keep her indefinitely, he can't let her go, but he can't kill her as originally planned, either. Before the media frenzy, he could've wiped Brookstien's shop completely off the map without casting suspicion on himself (well, without casting _much_). That's impossible now.

But, Temple is nothing if not adaptable. Though he likes to stick to a strict schedule, he prides himself on his ability to adapt when circumstances force him to. For now, he knows that lying low is the best course of action and he will use this time of wait to formulate a plan. His lair is well stocked with food and various other necessities, so there's no worry that Rebecca will starve. The biggest difficulty will be _sharing_ his existence with another human being for an undetermined amount of time without slowly going mad.

Still, as he leaves his bed and dresses for the day, he takes what little he knows about the woman cuffed to a chair in the other room and examines it. Like numbers in a math problem, he stacks the little idiosyncrasies he has noticed since first meeting her, adding one to the next and that one to the one after that, until he has a relatively clear picture of what makes her tick. She's timid, that he knows for a fact, and he can exploit that aspect of her personality. If he bullies her in just the right way, she will remain submissive and compliant, like a good hostage ought to be.

But, he considers as he knots his tie, she's also quick thinking, which could mean serious trouble if she gets it into her head to try and escape. Best not to bully her _too_ badly. ..

The most puzzling--and possibly the most damaging--thing he has to take into consideration, though, is that she isn't truly afraid of him. Concern at his injury is proof of that. He knows psychology. After he saved her, she probably looked on him in a positive light--the sort of light that could turn his plain gray suit into shining armor. If he doesn't bully her _enough_, she might take it into her head that the big, bad villain has gone soft for her. He's seen plenty of stupid young women wander into Gotham with the idea that love will prove to be a madman's redemption to know that it's not that far outside the realm of possibility. Rebecca might decide to fall in love with him, and wouldn't _that_ be a fine kettle of fish?

He can't be truly cruel to her, or she might use those brains of hers to plot an escape, but he can't be the least bit warm towards her, either. Indifference is surely the way to go.

Resigned to this course of action, Temple leaves his small bedroom and enters the main area of the lair, prepared to face his hostage with a cold and emotionally empty face.

Rebecca is already awake, which doesn't surprise him. Being handcuffed to a chair is hardly conducive to good sleeping habits and she looks up at him, dark circles already beginning to form under her eyes.

"Still alive, I see," he says conversationally, moving toward the small kitchen--if one can call a coffee pot, dorm room fridge and a hot plate a 'kitchen'. "Do you need anything?"

"I need…" she pauses, obviously uncomfortable.

"You _need_?" he presses, fixing her with a calculating stare. "I am not a mind reader, Miss Brookstien. If there is something necessary to your continued survival, you must _tell_ me. I cannot be expected to keep you in good health without _some_ cooperation on your part."

"I need to use the bathroom," she says haltingly.

"That would require freeing your hands."

"I won't try to get away."

"I have no guarantee of that," he replies slowly, considering. Would doing this small thing for her count as a kindness? Or would it count as trying to keep his lair in a somewhat livable condition? The last thing he needs is for her to have an 'accident'.

He sighs and says finally, "But, I suppose it would be barbaric to deny you."

Her look of relief is overpowering as he fumbles in his pockets for the keys to her cuffs. His injured arm is still being favored, but he hopes she doesn't notice as he unlatches one pair of handcuffs and then the other. Her hands are free for but a moment before he gathers her tiny wrists together in front of her and shackles them once more.

She doesn't look surprised by his action and takes it in stride.

Temple points to the left, toward the bathroom door. "Through there."

"Thank you."

"Be forewarned, I keep nothing that could be used as a weapon in there." His voice is hard, a warning. "Don't bother trying to find something. Such an ill conceived action will only irritate me."

"I wouldn't."

"You are learning the role of a hostage well, Miss Brookstien," he says with obvious pleasure.

She doesn't look up at him, merely starts for the door. "Yes."

---

Her absence is short (less than five minutes), just as it should be and he is near to praising her for her punctuality until he sees that she is carrying the small first aid kit that he keeps in case of emergencies.

Temple strides over to her and snatches the small, white plastic case from her angrily. The desire to slap her soundly across the face for defying him is almost overwhelming. "What do you think you're up to?"

She brings her eyes to his, meeting his gaze without wavering. "You're still hurt. Even if that gunshot wound is shallow, it might get infected--"

"Do you fancy yourself the reincarnation of Florence Nightingale?" he asks nastily, grabbing her by the shoulders and shoving her back into her chair. "I was under the impression we had already conducted this discussion. You are my _captive_. Concern for my well being is neither asked for nor desired."

"Let me help you."

"Absolutely not."

"Please?"

"_Why_ are you so bent on.." he can't even verbalize whatever it is that has taken hold of the girl in his care. He doesn't quite understand it. Perhaps letting her use the restroom _was_ too much kindness. She's already showing concern for him--not that she'd ever really _stopped_, exactly--and that is unacceptable.

"You saved my life." She says it with such conviction that it's like she can't imagine it to be an objectionable reason.

"And I could just as easily rob you of it!"

"You won't," she states evenly, but her eyes fill with tears. She _does_ fear him--just not _enough._

"You are a foolish, idealistic child," he spits. "I did what was necessary to keep you in my employ, nothing more. If you had been of no more use to me, I would have let that thug do whatever he pleased with you. To suggest that I would do otherwise shows that you are deluded. I am not a good person."

"You were." She sniffs hard, trying to keep from breaking down.

"There are worlds between that which we were and that which we _are._ You would do well to remember that I am a _criminal_, not a damaged man waiting for the right woman to _fix him_."

Her emotional dam breaks, but not in the way he expects it to. Instead of breaking down and sobbing, she shouts at him. "I don't want to fix you, I just don't want you to lose an arm to gangrene! If something happens to you, I'll _never_ get out of here!"

Temple's view of Rebecca warps and bends suddenly, going pear shaped. So, she _is_ interested in self preservation. His upper lip curls and a few muscles in his face twitch in tandem. He's not sure why the change in perspective aggravates him, but it does. Perhaps he was so attached to the idea of someone being enamored with him that he's disappointed it's not so.

Or, more likely, he's annoyed that he was _wrong_.

With as much flourish as he can manage with one functioning arm, he strips off his suit jacket and starts tugging at his tie. "_Fine_. You may dress the wound. Gauze and antibiotic ointment only."

She sniffles a few more times and nods, bringing her arms up and wiping her face on her sleeve.

He unbuttons the top four buttons on his shirt and pushes the fabric out of the way. It is far more awkward than simply stripping out of the offending garment, but he doesn't want to be appear that vulnerable.

She sets about her task quickly and efficiently, without a single lingering caress. There is something very professional and almost detached about the way she touches him, like the touch of a doctor--careful but not truly _caring._

He suffers through it and once she's finished, chains her to the chair once more.

And so it goes.


	4. Chapter 4

The second day of Rebecca Brookstien's captivity goes much more smoothly than the first as prisoner and warden settle into an oddly comfortable routine. Temple makes a point to give her access to the bathroom in the morning, in the afternoon and in the evening before he goes to bed. He also allows her free range of movement while eating, but, just in case, doesn't provide her with a knife or fork.

(This makes her eating a piece of steak rather interesting to watch.)

Twice during the day she tries to engage him in companionable conversation and twice he looks at her with enough chilly indifference in his gaze to silence her.

"Captives are to be seen and not heard."

"I just thought--"

"I very much doubt that."

She looks away from him, focusing on the floor and biting her lip.

As far as hostage situations go, she could do much, much worse and Temple believes she knows this. She doesn't look upon him with the sort of fear that one of the Joker's captives would look on the clown prince, but this fact only gets on his nerves a little. After all, he is not so egotistical to believe he _deserves_ the same level of fear that a lunatic like the Joker gets. If you want to get right down to it, the Clock King is probably one of the least frightening villains Gotham has to offer, if not _the_ least frightening.

This realization troubles Temple. When measured next to the Joker or the Scarecrow or even Scarface, he's not the least bit intimidating. He has no special toxins or gadgets in his arsenal and he has no hired goons with meaty fists and brass knuckles to make him _seem_ more menacing. He is nothing more than a man in a suit who commits time-themed crimes.

Suddenly, Temple feels as though he's not gimmicky enough to be in the Batman's rogues gallery. Even Edward Nygma is a more colorful, appropriately attention grabbing persona than that of the Clock King.

This troubles him, but he shrugs it off for the time being. If nothing else, his standing as a threat in Gotham has been elevated due to the Rebecca Brookstien fiasco.

Once she is finished with her dinner and he allows her to go to the bathroom, she returns to 'her' chair and sits down with more grace than a woman in her position should be able to muster.

Temple retrieves the handcuffs and prepares to restrain her once more.

"You don't have to do that, you know. I'm not going to run."

"So you keep saying," he says flatly. "You will not convince me to give you free reign of my lair; give up on that notion this very minute, Miss Brookstien."

She doesn't say anything in response, nor does she look up at him. In fact, she sits so still that Temple momentarily wonders if she's been petrified. Finally, she rasps in a whisper, making him jump slightly, "How's your arm?"

"Adequate."

"Are you going to leave me alone all night?"

Rebecca's understanding of her role as a hostage isn't completely clear to her yet, he thinks. It is trying his patience.

"It is not my job to keep you company," he says shortly. "If loneliness irks you so, I could put you out of your misery."

For the first time since their conversation started, she looks up at him and says with conviction, "You won't."

Temple huffs like an irate bull. "_Why_ do you insist on clinging to such an infantile fantasy?"

"You're lonely too."

His jaw clenches, relaxes, clenches again. "I am alone. By _choice_. There is a world of difference."

"I don't believe that."

The sound of his openhanded slap across her face echoes abruptly. "Then it is quite fortunate, Miss Brookstien, that I do not value your opinion."

While she's still reeling from the shattering of her delusion about his character, he roughly gathers her hands and shackles her to the chair. He leans over awkwardly, still favoring his wounded arm and his face brushes her hair as he starts securing her arms at her sides. If she smells of strawberries and cream, he most certainly doesn't notice.

He does not feel guilty, he tells himself, even as he sees the small purple bruises on her wrists. He overcompensates for his second of pity by forcing the cuffs to close as tightly as they can go, ignoring her sharp intake of breath through her teeth as the metal squeezes her flesh.

He starts to draw back, but when his lips are level with her ear and hers near his, she whispers to him. "You can't make me hate you."

"I don't have to," he whispers back. "If you have any sense, you'll come to it naturally."

---

The next day, Temple does not leave his room. Perhaps a day of solitude, hunger and discomfort will teach the girl that he is not to be trifled with.

The day after, he discovers that this course of action has backfired. He finds Rebecca slumped forward in her chair, breathing shallow, face pale.

Hiding his own apprehension, he approaches and barks, "What's wrong with you?"

She shakes her head unevenly, eyes unfocused. Her head bobs strangely, like her neck is having a hard time supporting her weight. Rebecca appears drunk, which makes no sense to Temple since he has definitely not provided her with anything remotely intoxicating.

Her voice is slow, syrupy, slurred. "Don't know."

Temple sneers and reaches forward to press a hand to her shoulder to sit her upright.

The eerie coolness radiating off her body in waves is alarming. His hand feels chilled at the touch of her skin to his.

"You're clammy."

Her answering groan is unintelligible and her head droops forward again.

Things just got a great deal more complicated for Temple Fugat and he knows it. If, while in his custody, Rebecca Brookstien dies, he'll be on the hook for murder--and if not murder, then manslaughter, at the very least. The citizens of Gotham will _crucify_ him if the little media darling perishes.

Angry at himself, at Rebecca and at the whole sticky situation in general, the Clock King reaches into his pocket to retrieve the keys that fit her cuffs. Gently--so gently that he's genuinely surprised he can achieve such tenderness--he releases her hands, one after the other. They instantly fall limp at her sides. All suspicion that somehow she's trying to pull a fast one flees. Real panic sets in.

Rebecca is light enough to lift even with an injured arm and Temple hoists her wilted form into his arms. He strides across the lair as quickly as he can with an extra hundred-something pounds in tow and kicks his bedroom door out of the way. The thought that he probably looked like some grand romantic hero as he did so doesn't even occur to him; he's too busy dropping down on his bed, the girl inelegantly positioned in his lap. It's only a twin mattress--he doesn't need more than that--but it should be much more comfortable than a metal folding chair.

Somehow, despite her apparent lack of life, Rebecca has managed to fist her hands in the fabric of his jacket. He attempts to extricate her fingers, but she is reluctant to release him.

Gripped by the illness that has descended on her brain, she mumbles into the fabric, "Don't."

A pause.

"Leave."

A shuddering breath.

"Me."

_Of all the ridiculous…_ Temple grabs her hands without ceremony and forcefully pries them from his jacket. With a shove that borders on angry, he pushes her from his lap and onto the mattress. Rebecca lays, limbs akimbo, back uncomfortably arched as she struggles through the haze of sickness that has turned her into an incoherent, shivering mass.

With disgust as clearly written on his face as if the word were printed on his forehead, Temple yanks her around like a compliant rag doll until she lies flat on her back, still shaking. He pulls the top sheet up and covers her with it, knowing that she would much prefer the quilt right now and moves swiftly across the lair, then into the bathroom to retrieve a cool compress. He returns, cloth in hand and presses it to her forehead roughly.

His fury stems from his confusion. She was perfectly fine the day before yesterday, what could have possibly wrought such a severe change for the worse?

Realization strikes him like lightning hitting a tree.

He glowers at Rebecca--Rebecca, who missed three meals yesterday.

"You little _idiot_," he growls, throwing the compress aside and striding purposefully towards the tiny dorm fridge. He opens the door and gropes inside for something that he can shove down her stupid little throat. There are a couple of juice boxes--in all honesty, the villain doesn't remember where he got them from or when--but he tears the straws off the packages, ripping them from their cellophane wrapping. He shoves them through the metal panels in the tops of the boxes and then returns to his bedroom.

Rebecca hasn't moved.

He drops down on his knees next to the bed, sliding one of the straws between her slackened lips. She does not instinctively suck, so he squeezes the box, forcing the juice into her mouth.

Some of the bright red liquid spills over, dribbling down from her lips, across the plane of her cheek and onto his pillowcase, staining it crimson.

It takes several moments, but as the box is slowly drained--most of the juice miraculously winding up _inside_ his hostage instead of _on_ her--the girl's eyelids flutter.

The second box follows suit.

Soon, she is looking at him through glassy eyes that are only a quarter of the way open. Her blinking is lethargic and unnaturally slow, but she is gradually coming back to consciousness.

Not for the first time--and certainly if things continue in their established pattern--not for the last, he wants to wring her scrawny neck for being such a nuisance.

Instead, in a display of incredible self control, he leans over her, hands braced on either side of her head, his face near to her ear just as it was when he warned her the last time.

"You very nearly killed yourself, you _twit_."

"You…" She gulps. "Saved…"

"I saved my own skin," he hisses in her ear, spittle flying as a direct result of his barely contained rage. "Your blood would have been on my hands in the eyes of the law but it would have been _your own fault._"

"I'm…sor--"

He cuts her off, his hand tangling in her hair and holding her firmly, not tugging, just holding a handful of the strands taut. It's a savage show of dominance, but effective. "Do you have any _other_ surprises in store for me? Or is hypoglycemia the darkest of your secrets?"

She breathes erratically, a huff, a puff, a strangling gasp and then she exhales abruptly, wincing at the feel of his fingers entwined in her hair. "Nothing."

Instantly his hand is removed from her person.

The watchmaker's granddaughter is vaguely aware as the door slams.


	5. Chapter 5

_A./N: A bit of content here that I would consider dark and somewhat dubious. Nothing graphic, and what occurs is more for the sake of character development than anything else, but I may need to up the rating if this darker trend continues. Also, know that nothing is ever __**quite**__ as it seems._

--

The fourth day dawns bright. Temple allowed Rebecca to remain in his bed for the night and he kept reluctant vigil over her--returning to his room when she had dropped off to sleep--but now that the clock is striking six, he has deemed her removal long overdue. Spending the past few hours staring at her prone form has done funny things to his eyes. She is even prettier in slumber and his observance of that fact has made him resent her all the more.

He has given a great deal of thought as to how to handle this messy situation. He must shake her strange…devotion to him. He must make her hate him. Things will be much less complicated for both of them if she will just _hate_ him. Thus far, being unkind to her hasn't worked. Being cold to her, that too has failed…

In the past twenty four hours, he has wracked his brain, trying to think like other, more terrifying rogues. If the Joker wanted to strike fear into the heart of a captive, what would he do?

That question is moot, though…the Joker's captives fear him to begin with.

Temple is at a loss. She hasn't reacted to forceful, unkind physical stimuli…and he's not sure he'd be very good at psychological warfare.

But, it's all he's got. He will make her hate him, somehow. He will do _something_ to her that she cannot forgive…and then life will be simple--cut and dried, black and white--again.

There is no gentle shaking of her shoulder and no quiet pleas for her to awaken. He kicks the box spring _hard_ and she jerks awake, clutching the sheet to her chest as she bolts upright.

Her eyes are open wide, but a little glassy, the sleep not completely shaken from them. Her hair is a mess, holding a slight wave from the way she had been laying on it and it has an oily sheen to it.

She looks up at him, blinking wearily, and he makes a point to ignore the sleepy, surprisingly inviting pout of her lips.

She may have been prettier when she was asleep, but there is something positively alluring about her in a state of partial wakefulness. He ignores that foreign observation the moment it crosses his mind.

"Get up." He voice is harsh, overcompensating.

Rebecca shifts with a yawn and stands, somewhat shakily. She stretches and scratches the top of her head. "Am I going back to the chair?"

"You are."

She frowns at him, but her shoulders slump noticeably with resignation. "May I at least have a shower beforehand? It's been three days…"

His first instinct is to deny her, but the words die in his throat. A voice in his head whispers that this is an opportunity to lay the foundation of hatred in her. Humiliation--human beings despise humiliation…

For the first time since she was first taken hostage, Temple smiles at her, genuinely. "You may."

She blinks for a moment at his change of attitude but slowly returns his smile. Hers holds more warmth than his ever could. Hers is _infused_ with warmth; his merely presents a passable facsimile of it.

"But I will watch."

Her face falls, her mouth dropping into the shape of the letter 'O', her eyes wide with horror. Voice choked, she forces out, "_What_?"

"I cannot trust you not to lose consciousness and drown yourself, can I? Yesterday's theatrics have proven that you cannot be left to your own devices." Smile growing cooler by the moment, eyes getting harder, glinting like chips of ice, he _leers_ at her. "Besides, you have asked one too many concessions from me, Miss Brookstien and I am not a man in the habit of giving favors. I must extract _some_ form of payment."

She looks sincerely shocked and more than a little sickened. Perhaps, just perhaps, she is realizing that he is not as kind as she would like to believe. Perhaps voyeurism is what will tip the scales of her opinion of him.

"But…but I--"

"Do you wish to bathe, or do you wish to be returned to your chair without that luxury? It makes no real difference to me, in either case…but you _will_ be returning to your chair within the hour. Clean or dirty is a choice I leave to you."

Her eyes dart away from him, to several points around the room and then back again. She can't meet his eyes for more than a second.

"I…but…" Her nervous gaze locks on his expectant one. "Clean."

Smugness colors his tone and he bows in an exaggerated display of chivalry as he opens the door, gesturing with one hand, "Shall we, then?"

The bathroom is small and cramped, a commode, a standing sink and a somewhat grimy shower stall are so close to each other that they almost touch. There isn't enough room to swing a cat.

"The shower works, though it's a bit charitable to call it a _shower_, per se. It's vertical water…and I'm sure you've noticed that there is no _hot_ water," he says as she sweeps through the door past him. "You will have to make do with cold."

A flash of the determined and, admittedly, intriguingly defiant Rebecca that he glimpsed in the watch shop shows in her eyes, but she turns her back to him for modesty's sake, and starts to unbutton her cotton dress.

His hand on her shoulder stops her. "You have no privacy here, Miss Brookstien. _None_. Turn."

Stricken, she turns and looks at him pleadingly.

"Are you now beginning to understand what you are dealing with? Are you _finally_ learning what it is to be a prisoner and just what sort of man your warden is?" He removes his hand and leans in the doorway casually. "Strip."

Her hands are shaking as she resumes unbuttoning her dress and she focuses single-mindedly on her task, he assumes to avoid his eyes. He focuses on a point above her shoulder, his eyes not really _on_ her, but his gaze aimed in her general direction. He doesn't need to actually stare at her to make her uncomfortable and for that, he is grateful. Temple Fugat is many things, but an honest to God Peeping Tom has never been one of them.

Rebecca peels out of her dress, dropping it with obvious unwillingness. The moment the fabric hits the floor, his eyes snap back to her face, just in time to give the impression that he's been watching her the whole time when she looks back up.

She hesitates in removing her undergarments, biting her lip.

He folds his arms across his chest and lifts one practiced brow. "Do you intend to shower in your slip?"

Her eyes look watery and her intake of breath is sharp. Oh good, she's on the verge of tears. Perhaps this was the right course of action after all.

Rebecca hooks her thumbs under the straps of her slip and removes it in one swift get-it-over-with motion.

In moments, she stands before him, bare as the day she was born, her eyes focused on the dirty tile of the bathroom floor.

He makes a show of stroking his chin and making noises like a critic studying a painting. "Hmmmm."

She burns with shame at his frank appraisal of her, the blush creeping down to her collar bone. His eyes stray no further--he has no _honest_ desire to ogle her, after all--this is all part of the 'plan', as it were. It isn't as though she has anything he hasn't seen before and he is not so desperate as to sneak a peek. Her distress is rather satisfying, though.

"On second thought," he says, boredom evident in his tone, "you are not my type, Miss Brookstien."

Rebecca's head snaps up and she locks eyes with him.

"Considering your strong attachment to me, I _am_ somewhat disappointed that you are such an unsuitable specimen." He shrugs lightly. "A decent face does not excuse, nor make up for, the emaciated figure of a waif."

Her eyes swell and tears spill over.

Internally, he cheers. The best way to hurt a woman: mercilessly pierce the bubble of her vanity. Maybe he learned something from the Joker after all…

He runs his tongue over his teeth noisily. "Since you have nothing of interest to offer me, I shall leave you to it. You have eight minutes to scrub off the uppermost layer of grime. Do see that you don't kill your moronic self in that space of time."

Indifferently, he takes his leave.

----

The Rebecca Brookstien that exits the bathroom is a different one than the one that entered it. Her shoulders are back, her chin jutting proudly and her wet hair hanging limp in her face does little to detract from the steely look in her eye.

Temple hides a smirk of amusement. So, the little lady has given herself a good old fashioned pep-talk, has she? How very…Harley Quinn of her.

She stomps to her chair and seats herself with all the regality of a Queen and all the resignation of a man led to the gallows. She places her arms at her sides, the musculature taut and her wrists stiff.

"I'm ready."

The click of the handcuffs does not affect her and she only winces a little as Temple secures her arms in their customary place.

"I'm going out," he says after finishing securing her to the chair. "I will return in less than an hour. Any escape attempt on your part will result in your immediate and _painful_ demise. Any escape _success_ will result in the immediate and painful demise of everyone you've ever cared about. Have I made myself clear?"

She takes a deep breath in through her nostrils. "Abundantly."

"Excellent. I'm so glad we're on the same page at last."

He drags a small crate within arm's length of her chair and places a plate of finger food on it. She will have to lean forward and eat like an animal if she doesn't want to starve while he's gone…

When he steps back to admire his handiwork, she glares up at him, having already deduced the reason for the crate and the meal on it.

"I know what you're trying to do."

"Oh, and what, pray tell, might that be?"

"You're trying to break me," she says boldly. "You won't succeed."

"My dear Miss Brookstien, you have already been broken." He chuckles. It sounds eerily cold even to his own ears. He doesn't like it, but it is part of this new crueler persona he has decided to cultivate. Better to keep it. "Now, it is just a matter of grinding the pieces to dust."

---

Though the Iceberg Lounge is definitely the most famous place that caters to villains, it is not the only nightspot that the Penguin runs. It is the most high profile, and high profile is not what the Clock King needs right now. He is still very much Gotham's Most Wanted and--though he knows that venturing out is one of the most foolish things he can possibly do right now--there are some things that cannot be helped.

The Electric Eel, a dance club that does its more questionable business in the back, is Temple's destination. Though the place usually caters to the drug dealers and smugglers of Gotham City, even supplying chemicals for men like the Scarecrow and the Joker, the manager can do just about anything for you, at the right price.

The back entrance is used and Temple tramps up the stairs to the manager's office. He bumps into Edward Nygma in plain clothes on his way up and the two criminals exchange automatic greetings.

"Fugat."

"Nygma."

"Congratulations on the media coverage."

"Congratulations on the Grist robbery."

"A stroke of brilliance on my part, if I do say so myself."

"And you do say so. Often, I'm sure."

A tip of their respective hats and they are moving in opposite directions again.

When he reaches the door to Norman White's office, he straightens his tie. He raises his fist to knock, but the door opens before he gets the chance to do so. A large bodyguard ushers him inside and slams the door behind him.

Norman, a portly man with thinning red hair and watery brown eyes, looks at him from over the steeple of his fingers, elbows braced on his desk. A fat cigar sits smoking in a crystal ash tray, filling the air with the pungent aroma of cherry infused tobacco.

"Ticktock, my friend, been awhile…" Norman's voice is ever so slightly slurred, the result of a broken jaw that healed wrong when he was a youth. He gestures at the chair in front of his desk. "What can I do for you?"

"Laundry."

Norman sits back in his chair, puts his meaty hands behind his head. "Four day old laundry? Detergent for stains that fresh doesn't come cheap."

Temple has always hated the use of Norman's absurd buzzwords, but in Norman's business, one could never be too careful of surveillance.

"I don't care about cost. I can cover it."

Norman nods slightly. "How much laundry are we discussing?"

Temple holds up three fingers: three hundred thousand dollars.

A smile spreads on the heavier man's face. "Consider it done."

They both stand and shake hands, sealing the deal. Pleased, Temple turns to leave. Norman's voice stops him.

"Oh, and Ticktock…"

"Yes?"

"Fair warning: someone in Gotham is gunning for you."

At this, Temple looks at Norman in confusion. "_Who_?"

"Nobody knows," Norman replies honestly. "I know you had a thing go down with the Winch awhile back--"

It takes Temple a moment to realize that 'Winch' is Norman's clever way of saying 'Crane' without actually saying anything that could directly allude to Jonathan Crane--alias the Scarecrow.

"Some bad blood got spread around there…but it's not him."

"Are you certain?"

"People are asking about you, Ticktock. Big, scary bruiser types. With heaters."

A throbbing in his left eye develops at the continued use of slang but Temple ignores it admirably. "I see."

"Just…be on the lookout." Norman's concern is almost touching. _Almost._ "I'd hate to lose one of my best customers to lead poisoning."


	6. Chapter 6

True to his word, Temple returns to his lair fifty nine minutes and thirty seven seconds after leaving it, a paper bag clutched tightly in his arms.

Rebecca hasn't moved. The food remains untouched. She stares straight ahead, not acknowledging his entrance. He slams the door behind him especially hard just to see her jump.

She doesn't give him the satisfaction.

"Starving yourself won't accomplish anything, Miss Brookstien," he says with a sigh, setting the bag on the table. He begins pulling the bag's contents out and arranging them. More juice, a few other staples; all in all, nothing of any particular interest. "Unless, of course, your aim is to send yourself into another low blood sugar attack."

"I'm not starving myself," she mutters. "I can't eat like this."

Temple starts putting the food away. "You are within reach of the table. I see nothing stopping you, other than stubbornness. Don't get me wrong, it's a preferable alternative to the pliant doll you were _before_…"

Her tone is incredulous, her gaze like a physical presence on him. "You _want_ me to be difficult?"

"I want you to behave like a hostage, _not_ a besotted schoolgirl."

She flinches and her cheeks heat as she looks away from him. "I…"

The girl lets out an angry puff of air, the sort of puff of air that says she would like to argue the point but can't find a valid argument with any basis in truth.

"I will take your silence as an admission of guilt." He is far too smug and she spares him a withering look.

Rebecca protests weakly. "I can't be held responsible for--I can't be considered _guilty_ of--I can hardly help that--"

"Do you lack the ability to finish a sentence or do you just _like_ to leave them dangling?"

"You've saved my life. Twice now."

"What has that to do with anything?"

She looks at him like he's being purposely obtuse. "You seem to think that I can just turn hatred on and off, like my emotions are controlled by a switch. Real people don't function that way. You saved my life, yet you want me to hate you…I _can't_. I don't _like_ you very much right now, but I _won't_ hate you. I don't think I can."

He slams a package of juice boxes down and stalks to her, snagging her hair and twisting until her head is tilted back at an uncomfortable angle.

"Are you so sure?" he asks with a sharp tug of her hair. Her face twists into a grimace for but a moment, and then she is staring up at him, jaw clenched. "I think, if I tried hard enough, I could make you _despise_ me."

"You couldn't."

"You are an _idiot_, Miss Brookstien, pure and simple. The most puzzling, reckless _fool_ I've ever come across in my long and storied career of dealing with fools! I have done everything short of beating you and still you persist in this…this…nonsense! Disabuse yourself of any notions that even _hint_ at me being a _nice man_, or I shall do it for you in ways far more sinister than anything you've experienced thus far!"

The slight look of fear in her eyes mingles with a strange and obvious fascination. He wants to beat that look out of her; wants to slap her around until she stops looking at him with interest and starts looking at him with _terror_, but she hasn't responded to _anything_ in the way she ought to. He knows beating her black and blue won't accomplish anything other than injuring her. There may be no way of reversing whatever it is she feels for him.

And here he was under the impression that Stockholm Syndrome had to be actively cultivated by the captor to take hold of the prisoner. Apparently not.

Her gaze is frank, open and guileless. "You're lying. Not just to me, but to yourself. This is nothing but playacting. You want to scare me. You want things to be clean and simple. You want to make this…uncomplicated. It won't be. It _can't_ be. Maybe if I had been some random woman you yanked off the street and abducted, _then_ things would have been easy…but we have _history_."

"We have no _history._"

"We do." She looks determined, despite her prone position, head thrown back and neck bared like a submissive animal before a predator. "You _saved_ me from the worst possible…the worst--the _point_ is, you saved me. You could have let it go, you could have walked away, but you _didn't_."

He growls, leaning imperceptibly closer, looming large in her vision. "I told you, if I didn't need your services, I _would have_. Stop deluding yourself, I did not stop the progress of that assault for _you_, I did it for _me_."

Her eyes suddenly slide away from his face and focus on a point somewhere to his left.

He is perceptive enough to know she is avoiding telling him something else. "There's _more_? Oh, _do tell_, Miss Brookstien. Truly, this conversation is turning into every soap opera writer's wet dream."

"When you first came into the shop…" she says in a whisper, her voice dropping an octave and her face flushing with embarrassment, "when you first came to the shop, I was…"

Rebecca stops abruptly and he finds himself annoyed. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "_You were?_"

She cannot meet his gaze. Her words are halting, reluctant. "I was…attracted to you."

He must admit, the deepest, most male part of his ego is stroked by this admission; but no one--and especially not Temple Fugat--ever got anywhere in life by listening to their basest urges.

He studies her with intent. "Is that so?"

She nods once, ever so slightly, as much as his handle on her hair will allow. He scowls at her.

"I cannot hear your head jangling like a bell, Miss Brookstien. Tell me the truth in _words_, not pantomimes."

The sound of her throat clearing is strangled. "I did."

"I am at least a decade your senior," he dismisses.

Her slight shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "Age has never mattered to me."

"I suppose next you'll tell me that felony records don't either."

She looks up at him sharply. "They matter. They _do_ matter, quite a lot. I'm not stupid. I know what you are. What you've done."

"You are a very contrary creature, Miss Brookstien. You say you understand what I am, and still you try and treat me as a cuddly teddy bear."

"I treat you in accordance with what you are," she answers crossly, "I know your history. I know that your turn to crime wasn't exactly all your fault. Your heart isn't so black as you'd like to paint it. You're not insane. You're not like the Joker: you've never murdered anyone."

"That you know of." Her eyes go a fraction of an inch wider. "I am a man of rigid punctuality and order. A very precise and exacting man. Surely if I were to commit homicide, I would be methodical enough to avoid casting suspicion on myself."

"I don't believe that."

"That is hardly my concern. I am a criminal and, despite your romantic notions to the contrary, a murderer."

"Why do you keep trying to convince me that you're evil?"

"Why do you keep trying to convince yourself I'm not?"

She is silent, considering, perhaps even fortifying herself for what she plans to say next. Then, her voice comes out stronger, more forceful than he has ever heard it before:

"I refuse to believe I started falling for a truly nasty piece of work."

He instantly releases her, shoving her head away from his palm as though she's burned him. Her words surprise him, but not half so much as his own emotional reaction to them. He is disgusted, intrigued, flattered and disturbed all in the same instant. The tidal wave of foreign sentiment is so powerful he almost staggers away from her with the strength of it. He suspected as much, certainly, but to have it confirmed so starkly, put so plainly, is another matter entirely. Two seconds pass as two hours and the heady understanding that someone actually developed genuine _feelings_ for him sets in.

He recovers, he believes in an admirable fashion, and he tugs his suit jacket down sharply, schooling his features into a carefully constructed expression of disdain.

"Believe it."

He reaches inside his breast pocket for his pistol, only hazily aware of the plan forming in his head. A little voice in the back of his head wonders, like an observing scientist: _Is he really going to shoot her in cold blood?_

It certainly _looks_ that way…it _feels_ that way…

Temple feels detached from his body even as he draws the gun. The lair is silent and still, like he is the only thing capable of movement and everything else is holding its breath, watching him, paralyzed with shock.

The front door bursts open with a crash and he spins on his heel.

The police are expected, but they are not there. Instead, there are two large brutes--hired goons, no doubt--standing there. They descend on Temple before he can take flick the safety off, a mass of solid muscle that slams into him with such force it's like running headlong into a brick wall. He goes sprawling, the gun pulled from his hand and tossed aside with all the care one would give a toddler's discarded toy. One of the goons grabs his wrist and _twists_ until something snaps and a splinter of agony drives itself down Temple's arm, all the way to the elbow.

His ribcage feels like it's being crushed under the weight of the other men and the almost dull pain of his hair being grabbed by the fistful is surreal next to the torture that is his broken wrist.

Temple's head is yanked upwards, his neck straining with the sudden, sharp movement, and the goon bashes his head into the concrete floor, like a caveman trying to crack a coconut.

The world goes black.


	7. Chapter 7

A voice drifts to him through the darkness, words punctuated by a slap across his face that he can hardly feel, "Where's the money, Fugat?"

Temple is not fully conscious, not fully, physically aware of his body, more like an outside observer looking in on this thing happening to him. He knows this feeling of strange, unnatural detachment. He's been drugged, nearly to oblivion. His wrists are bound to something, the pain of the broken one nothing but a pounding in his arm now, hot and insistent, but dulled.

"Where's the _money_?" The forbidding voice comes from an indistinct shadow, large, so large, blotting out the sun that is the bare bulb swinging back and forth from the ceiling. The pull string is a piece of chain and it makes a _clink_ sound with every movement to and fro as it strikes the light bulb. The halo of light around the angry silhouette waves with regularity. It's making Temple feel seasick. He groans, irrationally hoping the rumble in his chest will force down the nausea.

His shoulders are held in a viselike grip and he's shaken violently, his head whipping back and forth on his rubbery neck, unable to fight the force being applied. "Where's the money?!"

"At the cleaners," he slurs in response. His mouth feels like it's out of proportion with the rest of his face, his tongue too large for it. His lips are numb, uncooperative as he tries to make more sound, "White's."

Another smack is his reward. His face doesn't sting from the blow, but he feels infinitely more concussed by it. Something he didn't think possible.

"Pocket change! We want the _big money_, Fugat. That bank you hit six months ago. The millions you got away with!"

He doesn't answer. The stars that dance at the edges of his vision are too distracting…maybe that smack was a bit more severe than just a smack.

Another voice hisses harshly, "He isn't going to give it up if you beat him to death…"

There's a frustrated sound from the owner of the first voice, somewhere between a growl and a grumble.

The stars encroach on his vision more fully, turning the world snowy white and blinding. The whiteness flashes, like a strobe light, in alternating shades of complete colorlessness and gray. His ears buzz with the sound of static, drowning out the arguing voices, lulling him back into unconsciousness.

---

Like being gripped in the aftermath of a particularly nasty hangover, Temple wakes to a world that throbs around him. The heartbeat of some large, unidentifiable entity and he caught in the tide of its pulse. Everything _hurts_. His left eye is swollen shut, his faces feels unnaturally large and his breathing comes in shudders.

Blood pounding in his ears, he tries to sit up. Disorientation greets him, as is to be expected. His vision wavers and he feels the need to lie back down again.

The fact that the bed he lays on is his own does not escape his notice. The scratchy military surplus blanket has never felt so horrible as it does against his ruined face and he wishes in that instant that he had invested in something a bit more posh.

Blinking lazily, he rolls onto his back. The room spins slowly, the ceiling sliding in front of him until the corners are on the diagonal. It takes all his strength to push his leg off the mattress and his foot, heavy like it's asleep, braces itself on the floor. He realizes then with disconnected interest that the room isn't at an angle, _he_ is.

He takes a slow, careful breath. It sounds like a death rattle in his chest to his own ears. His throat is constricted and sore, like someone tried to choke him recently. The oxygen sliding through his nostrils and down his windpipe is almost painful to take in, but he's grateful that he doesn't shudder quite so hard this time. With effort, Temple manages some deep, regular lungfuls of air.

In the great scheme of things, it is not the worst beating he has ever taken. The first time he was put in prison, before he was deemed criminally insane and transferred to Arkham where he belonged, there had practically been a bull's-eye painted on his back. He was smaller and infinitely weaker than the career criminals that surrounded him and they made him their new punching bag for no other reason than that they could.

He had nearly died in Gotham Penitentiary and had spent a long three weeks convalescing, recovering from the broken bones and bruises. His cell in Arkham Asylum, with its shrieking psychos and forced--but heavily supervised--group time was preferable to all the fresh air that the 'yard' of the penitentiary had to offer. It took some getting used to, and he didn't get much sleep there, but at least at the insane asylum the chances of him being shanked because of his puniness decreased dramatically.

The door slams open, the sound thrumming across Temple's nerves like a bow across the highest of e strings. He doesn't jump or startle, but only because he hasn't the strength for it.

"Brought you some company, Fugat," a gruff voice says with a heavy measure of amusement. He identifies it as the first that woke him and slapped him around during his interrogation.

He struggles to sit up, propping himself up on the elbow of his uninjured arm. His eyes are still unfocused, rolling inside their sockets. Whatever drug is pumping through his veins is certainly persistent when it comes to keeping him incapacitated. There are indistinct shapes in the distance, framed by the light of the doorway, one small, one large, each melting into the other before his eyes. Clarity starts creeping in on the scene, bit by bit, like the image inside a telescope screen slowly coming into focus.

The larger shadow pushes the smaller forward; the goon and Rebecca, Temple belatedly realizes. She stumbles, landing on her hands and knees a few feet from the cot. Her dress is spattered with red, ripped in places and her face is bruised--though nowhere near as heavily as his own. She's sniffling, breathing ragged, trying to force down sobs.

"Enjoy her," the goon says from the doorway. "We certainly did."

The door slams shut, shaking the room, the sound making Temple's ears ring.

Rebecca slumps forward, her forehead pressed against the floor. Her hands curl inward--her whole body follows suit. She coils up into a ball on the floor, knees pulled up to her chest, and the sniffling dissolves into body wracking cries.

What little strength was holding him up flees his form and Temple flops back on the cot once more. The heart rending wails would stir the pity of even the most miserly of men. The Clock King is simply too drugged up to care.

He doesn't slide into oblivion again, but a state of wakeful daze, like a shallow daydream. He is aware of what goes on around him, albeit only marginally, but his thoughts are so muddled, so all consuming, _drowning_ him, that he can't seem to surface.

---

Whatever drug is pumping through Fugat's bloodstream is finally beginning to wear off. His fuzzy awareness grows sharper, the external world growing more insistent and intruding on his hypnotic state. The dull throbbing in his wrist rises incrementally until it is no longer easy to ignore. His face feels puffy and painful…his ribs are bruised. All these things occur to him one by one, piling on top of one another until each of the pieces make a complete picture of searing misery.

He moans and realizes: his throat isn't sore, it's _raw_.

The amount that the drugs dulled his perception is absolutely radical. Perhaps this _is_ the worst beating he's ever taken…

Something cool brushes his cheek and he jerks away from it. Gentle as it may be, it still _hurts_. He opens his good eye as wide as he can. Rebecca is all he can see, her face blotchy and ugly from her tears; the red mingles with the blue and purple of her bruises. No longer is she even remotely pretty.

She touches his face again, her breaths coming sharp, abbreviated. Her eyes are still watery, but she is no longer actually _crying_.

How long did he float in the nothingness of near unconsciousness?

"Are you okay?"

His mouth does not cooperate with the snappy retort he'd like to spew angrily at her. _Of course I'm not okay, you twit, __**look**__ at me._

On the wings of a pained sigh he manages, "No."

"Can--" she scrubs her hand over her face, drying it as best she can, "can you sit up?"

He wishes very badly that he had two eyes to glare at her with so the full effect would get across. She seems to understand and shifts, kneeling before him. Her hands are tender but he sucks air in through his teeth all the same. She maneuvers him so that she can join him on the bed and tries to make him as comfortable as possible, her thin arms wrapping around him protectively. They are face to face on their sides; were circumstances different, they would look like lovers in an embrace, her fingers tangle in his unkempt hair, short fingernails scoring his scalp. The sensation gives him something to focus on other than the aching of his limbs.

His eyes close of their own volition. It's too hard to keep them open any longer.

"Who…" The single word is hard to force out from between his puffy, split lips. God, his face must be blown up like a balloon.

"I don't know," she murmurs to him, voice soothing. "They want money. The millions you stole. That's…that's all they said."

He grunts, the sound coming from deep inside his throat. Those millions…those millions that Oswald Cobblepot advised him to invest--or, at least, put in a Cayman account--

Those millions that are stuffed inside the box spring that he and Rebecca lay upon _right now_.

"I think," her voice cracks and her shivering against him tells him she's started to cry again. "I think they're going to kill us if they don't get what they want."

It's a struggle to form a whole sentence. "Even if they do."

"Is…is there any way to stop them?"

"None."

Her cries are muffled by his shirt. She has buried her face in his chest and he didn't even notice. "Couldn't we trick them--send them on a wild goose chase--_something_?"

Instead of an answer, his voice comes out in an incoherent croak. He's used up the last of his voice.

"They left water for us," she whispers against him. He nods in answer and is acutely aware of her warmth leaving him.

A small plastic tube is inserted between his distended lips and he sucks at it greedily. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget how much relief a simple sip of water has just brought him. It puts the world into a strange kind of perspective.

"Could we trick them, Temple?" It's strange to hear her voice caress the syllables of his name. Strange, but not unpleasant. "Could we?"

His vocal chords lubricated, the word slides easier out of his throat. "More."

The straw is brought to his lips again and he feels even better with the second gulp. He opens his eyes and looks at the watchmaker's granddaughter. "Better."

She waits with an expectant expression.

"It wouldn't work."

Her whole body sinks. "It's hopeless?"

"Unless Batman finds us, yes."

Never, _never_ did Temple Fugat ever think in a million years that he would be _hoping_ for his lair to be found by the dark knight.

How things change…


	8. Chapter 8

On the fifth day of Rebecca Brookstien's captivity, which has turned into Temple Fugat _and_ Rebecca Brookstien's captivity, she is officially Old News. The Joker, not to be outdone by the likes of the Clock King, has abducted a seven year old girl with the unfortunate moniker of Jessica Turr--obviously the name twisted inside the harlequin of hate's mind to form 'jester'--and Rebecca's face has been replaced with the child's on every major network news broadcast in the country. For now, the heat is off. As long as the Joker is at large, Batman will concentrate his efforts on the clown prince of crime, not the self styled crown prince of punctuality.

All hope of escape is surely lost.

The unlikely pair's captors gloat about this fact when they check on them the next morning. Temple is still stretched across the mattress, feeling slightly better than the day before, Rebecca kneeling on the floor near him. Only one man saunters into the tiny bedroom, but his voice identifies him once again. His partner must not be the hands-on type.

"So, you in the mood to tell us what we want to hear today, Fugat?"

He doesn't answer, instead running all his options through his head one after another in the blink of an eye.

If he lies, one of the goons will no doubt go investigate his claim, find it false and then kill him in a fit of pique. If he reveals the location of the money truthfully, his throat is still as good as slit.

"I _said_, are you gonna tell me what I want to hear, Fugat?"

Silence is all the reply he gives.

The goon advances into the room and suddenly hauls Rebecca off the floor by the arm. "Have it your way, then."

Ignoring the sudden gnawing of guilt in his gut, he tells himself there was nothing he could do…

---

Hours later, Rebecca returns, her bruises refreshed and compounded. She doesn't collapse like she did the day before; she's eerily calm, her movements mechanical. She crosses the room and climbs back onto the cot, drawing as close to Temple as she possibly can, like his body is a shield. The arm attached to his broken wrist is stretched in front of him on the bed and carefully, so as not to injure him further, she pillows her head on his bicep. She manipulates his other arm until it is swung over her waist and curls up against his chest.

The silence is deafening.

For several minutes, Temple has no idea how many and that bothers him, all he hears is his own heartbeat. Her breathing is too quiet to register, even in this position.

His speech comes with less difficulty than it did just twenty four hours prior, but his voice doesn't raise above a whisper. "Are you okay?"

"No."

There's nothing more for him to say, so he just lies still, staring at nothing, thinking of nothing.

Her harsh intake of breath calls him back to the here and now. "They wanted me to tell you…"

His mobile arm tightens around her instinctively, urging her to continue without any words needing to be said.

"One more hour." Rebecca's eyes venture to meet his. "Sixty minutes exactly. That's all."

Fugat can feel his face drain of its color.

"They promise not to hurt us if you give them the money."

Her naïvete, which was once such a quaint little problem, is now, in the face of this horrible development, somewhat…endearing.

"They're lying."

Her lips twist into a bitter parody of a smile. "I know."

Temple gets the distinct impression he should be apologizing right now, but in a strange twist, he doesn't feel particularly compelled. Is he sorry things have worked out the way they have? Definitely…he's definitely sorry he's going to die. To apologize to her, though, is to suggest that he's sorry she'll be joining him. That would be a false apology; the moment he took her as a hostage, her fate was sealed, one way or another. In his heart of hearts he knew he would never actually be able to let her go.

"But…" Hope steals back into her expression.

"What?"

"If...if we're going to…_die_ anyway…why _not_ tell them? On the off chance that they--"

His chuckle is a breathless wheeze. It hurts him, but it feels perversely good to laugh, even at this moment of dark humor.

She stares at him strangely and realization strikes.

"The money's _here_, isn't it? They'd kill us out of spite."

He doesn't need to verbally confirm. "No man likes to be made a fool of."

"Where?"

He smiles crookedly. "The mattress."

She smiles at him with a little bit of awe and her arms tighten almost imperceptibly around him. "Under their noses all this time…well, under _our_ noses, rather."

A single tear breaks through her mask of jaded indifference and slides down her cheek, despite her smile. He doesn't know what makes him move his good arm so that he can brush the saltwater away, but he moves his thumb delicately over her skin all the same.

"I'm sorry about this." His own whisper surprises him; the honesty of the statement shocks him even more. Moments ago, he had himself convinced she was living on borrowed time one way or another, didn't he? What happened?

"So am I," she sniffles hard and graces him with a shivery smile. "If things had been different…"

The petal softness of her lips on his--delicate and careful, trying not to hurt him further--stuns him so thoroughly all he can do is stare at her, eyes wide, jaw slack. Her fingers lace through his hair again and then she pulls back to look at him.

In that same instant, the door is nearly knocked off its hinges. The goon who roughed Temple up so severely strides in, his shoulders hunched, face determined.

"Change of plans, kids. The Bat's on his way."

His keeper draws a gun from somewhere that Temple can't see and before he even has time to react, slams the butt of the weapon into his skull. Once, twice...

The last thing he hears is scuffling and Rebecca's scream.


	9. Chapter 9

He regains consciousness for a few scant seconds. The room is filled with plumes of purple knockout gas.

Batman stands over Temple Fugat. Never in all his days has he been so glad to see that cape and cowl.

Unconsciousness claims him one more time.

---

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

The noise is insistent, incessant, annoying. It plays at the very edges of his consciousness and Temple can't be entirely sure if it's really there or not. He can't identify it, at first; he has no other frame of reference to start from. His hearing is the first of his senses to return as he struggles out of deep, deep drug induced sleep, but as yet, he can't make sense of what the sound, so regular, so sharp means.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

Sense of smell comes next. It feels like being inside a stagnant, boarded up apartment and then flinging open a window, the rush of scent is so sudden and strong. His nostrils are assaulted all at once by the unpleasant tang of antiseptic, bleach and an underlying note of sickness. It's almost overwhelming and it makes his eyes water behind his lids.

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

It takes a moment, but his mind catches up. Ah…a hospital.

He'd like very much to open his eyes, but he's just _so tired_…

The dreamy, floaty feeling of being drugged is much more pleasant this time around. He feels no pain, no discomfort; nothing bothers him.

Except…there's something he's forgetting. It's nagging at him. What is it?

It doesn't matter, he thinks as the nagging feeling is swallowed up by oblivion again. Whatever it is, it can wait.

It can wait. Everything can wait.

Sleep now.

---

Temple surfaces from the most restful night's sleep he's ever had.

(He does not realize that it was a six week long restful night's sleep.)

Drowzily, he opens his eyes, letting his focus travel around the familiar room.

The Arkham infirmary…though this is a part of it he's never been in before. This must be the critical care ward.

The hospital bed is in a semi-upright position and a nurse at her station a few feet away, chatting with one of the guards, notices his movement. She ceases her conversation and picks up the telephone receiver on her desk immediately.

"Fugat's awake."

He notes indifferently that she doesn't rush to him to check on his condition as a nurse in a 'normal' hospital might. Here in Arkham, it doesn't work like that. For a criminal, _nothing_ works like that. Nobody cares, nobody honestly gives a damn, nobody except--

Recollection slams into him with as much force as if he were standing in the path of an oncoming train.

Rebecca.

His agitation must show, because the guard eyes him suspiciously, like he's just waiting for the insane asylum patient to flip out.

"Yes. He should be well enough for questioning," the nurse continues, unaffected, "we'll move him to a cell immediately."

---

By saying 'cell', what the nurse clearly meant was Arkham's version of a police station interrogation room. It's empty save for two chairs and a sturdy steel table. Temple--still astounded by his own ability to move without pain--is escorted inside by a burly, grim faced guard. His wrist has healed during his coma but he still winces at the feel of handcuffs being secured around it. The chains that link his wrists are attached to the table itself, strung through a loop beneath its surface and for even further security, his ankles are bound to the chair legs.

He has only been brought to this room once before and the Batman was the one who wanted a word with him then. Not so this time.

The words escape his lips before he can stop them, surprise fueling the statement: "Commissioner Gordon."

James Gordon looks about ten years older than the photos in the newspapers make him seem. It's not that his face is deeply lined (though it is) and it's not that his hair is going white (though it is as well); it's a sort of emotional weariness he has in his stance, in the blue of his eyes. He is tired, overworked and stressed by Gotham and it shows. His posture is still strong, his spine ramrod straight, but his shoulders round off a bit, like he carries the weight of Atlas himself on them.

"Fugat."

More uncontrollable words bubble forth from Temple's lips, "What did you do with her?"

"Funny," Gordon swings the chair out away from the table and straddles it, much like he would have when he was a rookie, "I was going to ask you the same thing."

Suspicion narrows Temple's eyes suddenly. "What are you talking about?"

Gordon adjusts his glasses. "_You_ were the only thing we found at your hideout, Fugat."

The realization is like being drenched with ice water. "They took her."

The policeman looks genuinely puzzled. "_Who_ took her?"

"The goons that did this to _me_," Fugat spits angrily, gesturing at his now scarred face. "The men who took us both hostage. They must have taken her and--"

Gordon's eyes fill with understanding. "Oh…then you still haven't..." His throat is cleared gruffly. "I'm afraid things aren't exactly the way you think they are, Fugat."

Temple says nothing, just considers Gordon with unrestrained, obvious wariness.

"The woman you knew as Rebecca Brookstien did not exist," Commissioner Gordon says with conviction, pulling a file folder seemingly from thin air and pushing it across the utilitarian table.

With trepidation, Temple picks it up, manipulating it as best he can with his hands cuffed as they are. Clumsily, he opens it and stares down at the face of the woman who had been his hostage for three point five days.

Rebecca stares up at him from a black and white striped background, holding a slate in her hands that reads "Robertson, Sheila".

It's a mug shot.

In confusion, the Clock King looks up at Gordon. "I don't understand."

Another file folder is produced. Inside it, a similar photo of a much younger Jacob Brookstien lurks, his slate reading "Harbik, Joey".

Something akin to understanding dawns on Temple, but the facts are still too foggy to get a clear picture. Joey Harbik--had he darker hair--would look eerily like the man who beat Temple senseless. But…

"They're con artists and thieves, Fugat," Gordon says. "We've had time to fill in the blanks while you were out…with Batman's help, of course. Harbik was captured last week in Gateway City; he told us everything in exchange for a reduced sentence…Robertson's still at large, though.

"On October first, they robbed Brookstien's Curio Shop. You arrived shortly after they pulled the job. They murdered the _real_ Jacob Brookstien and when you wandered through the door, they improvised. Supposedly, Harbik only intended to pose as Brookstien long enough to get you out of the shop, but his partner recognized you on the security cameras and saw…possibilities. Real opportunists, these two."

The pieces fall into place. "They…they planned it all, didn't they?"

"You saved 'Rebecca' from a bogus attempted rape. She 'coincidentally' showed up at the bank you were robbing." Gordon looks as sympathetic as the situation allows. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, she made an effort to get close to you during her captivity."

"You're not wrong." Temple tries not to think of her body molding to the contours of his. _Lies, all of it._ Her wide eyed innocence was nothing but a smoke screen. A clever, carefully maintained cover for the viper lurking beneath. "The men who took us hostage…they didn't really take _us_ hostage at all, did they?"

"That's a safe bet."

"But how? _How_? Everything was so…so…_perfectly timed._ How could it be _anything_ but coincidence?"

Yes, he realizes when the words are out. Everything _was_ perfectly timed. So perfectly that he feels a sharp stab of admiration. Rebecca was being attacked at the precise time he walked through the watch shop's front door--it was staged for his benefit. She showed up at the bank when he needed a hostage--she must have followed him. The goons only burst in on them when her life was in immediate danger--they must have been watching the place. He never actually _saw_ them strike Rebecca--and he was heavily drugged most of the time. He was knocked unconscious directly after revealing the location of his stash of petty cash…

The only thing coincidental must have been the very first meeting; the day his watch stopped and he decided to have it repaired--everything beyond that was _planned_…

How strange that the events he thought so chaotic, so random, so _accidental_ were not accidental at all. How ironic that the things _he_ didn't plan for were planned by somebody _else_…

How odd for the Clock King to be outdone in the art of timing and precision.

How _humbling_.

Gordon draws Temple back to the present even as the realizations keep coming.

"Robertson is famous in the con circles for her precision, Fugat. Hundred and eighty IQ, good at thinking on the fly and a damn fine actress. She's such a menace on the west coast, they call her a criminal mastermind. Everything she does…well, it's all a game to her. She picks a profitable victim, lures them in and takes them for everything they've got. The bigger the challenge, the more likely she is to dive in."

Temple's shoulders slump and he buries his face in his hands, feeling like a fool. "She played me like a Stradivarius."

"I'm afraid so."

Temple grows furious in the space of a few seconds and he looks up at Gordon with rage written on his features. "Why the media frenzy over her kidnapping if you knew this? Why not out her as a fraud?"

"Be honest, Fugat…if you knew she was a con artist, would you have let her live? Criminal or not, we didn't want you to kill her."

"So you perpetuated her lies?!" He spits as he shouts. "You led all of Gotham--and _me_--to believe I had an innocent bystander in my clutches?"

"Fugat--"

"Get out! Get out! Get out!" He stands abruptly, his arms jerked taut by the chains that bind his wrists to the table. "You let her make a fool of me! GET OUT!"


	10. Chapter 10

_Three weeks later…_

Jonathan Crane sneers at the white beach before him and the crystal clear blue ocean beyond it. The sun is hot and bright, beating down on him, mercilessly making him sweat inside his wool suit. He glares at the woman lounging in a beach chair, sipping a pink frozen drink from an absolutely absurd looking glass. The beach isn't nearly as crowded as it should be and they are rather secluded. Of course, it's a small island, very exotic and very exclusive. A grand total of three people on the beach shouldn't be all that unusual.

He shields his eyes from the sun and approaches her, his strides awkward in the dunes, his arm feeling rubbery and weak with the weight of the heavy suitcase he carries. "Miss Robertson."

She brings up one perfectly manicured hand and shifts her large white sunglasses so that she can peer over them.

"Doctor Crane." She smiles beguilingly and takes another sip from her glass, licking her lips with seductive intent after she swallows. "I had no idea you made house calls."

He is unaffected by her display.

"You skipped town before I was able to properly reward you."

She slides her sunglasses back into place. "The Clock King's stash was plenty of reward for me."

"I hired you, Miss Robertson. It is bad business procedure not to give one's employees what they are owed." He pauses, his voice growing a little bit colder. "Especially considering how…_thorough_ a job you did."

She smiles in a self satisfied way and her tone is lilting, almost _mocking_. "Was he very heartbroken?"

"Devastated. They're still talking about it in Arkham." He shifts from one foot to the other. "I must say that the depths you went to trifle with the man's emotions and mental state were unexpected."

"But not unwelcome," she answers with a knowing smirk. "You wanted me to ruin him, didn't you? In a way that _couldn't_ be traced back to you? I'd say I succeeded. A broken heart and a demolished ego can _hardly_ be blamed on the master of fear."

Crane stares at her in wonder. How this heartless con artist could hide so well beneath the innocent visage of Rebecca Brookstien is a question to boggle even the most brilliant of minds.

"Besides, you aren't the only villain in Gotham who wanted to see the Clock King taken down a peg or two. He's not exactly Mister Popularity, you know."

This revelation isn't as surprising as Crane's tone would suggest, "I'm not the only man who hired you?"

"You were the _first_…I just made a few calls to see if anyone else wanted in on the action." Her eyebrows wiggle at him suggestively. "And when Sheila Robertson is offering action, _everybody_ wants a _piece._"

His upper lip curls in disgust. "I _see._"

"Don't look so down, Doctor," she laughs lightly, taking his loathing for disappointment, "you wanted Temple Fugat ruined; I gave you Temple Fugat ruined and I daresay he won't be recovering anytime soon."

"Indeed?"

"Oh, yes. I know men like the Clock King, Doctor…they build these great walls around them, thinking they're impenetrable, thinking that they'll save them from hurt, when really it only makes the first time they fall from their ivory towers so much _worse_ and the recovery--well, I'm sure I don't have to explain it to _you_."

"Enlighten me, Miss Robertson," he replies dully. "My curiosity is piqued."

She sets her glass down and removes her sunglasses, eyes mischievously glinting in the sun. "It'll just have to _stay_ piqued. I can't give away all the secrets of the trade…if I did, I wouldn't be such a precious commodity, now would I?"

Crane's smile is mirthless, bitter. "You're not so rare a creature as you think, Miss Robertson. Where I come from, manipulative sociopaths for hire are a dime a dozen."

Her laughter is airy, like the tinkling of bells. She is enjoying this far too much. "True enough, but I'd wager none of them look half so good in a bikini."

"Perhaps not." His weariness with the conversation and its participant is starting to show. Almost involuntarily his arm extends, offering the briefcase to her. She reaches for it gracefully, absolutely no trace of the awkward Rebecca Brookstien in her movements.

"That's an awful fat briefcase, Doc" she says, taking it from him and caressing the locks. "You already paid me fifty thou…and the Clock King's nest egg was a couple million more. You didn't have to give me a Caddy and the dealership to match."

"It is no less than you deserve." He nods at her, bending at the waist in the slightest of bows. "If you will excuse me, Miss Robertson, I have other business to attend to on the island."

"Of course, Doctor Crane," she rises, briefcase at her side, and reaches to shake his hand, "a pleasure doing business with you. I hope we'll be able to work together again."

He smiles slightly, his left hand covering hers as they shake. "I don't think I will be requiring your services anytime soon."

She affects a well practiced pout. "That's too bad…I rather enjoyed the challenge you set forth."

"I rather enjoyed the results," he replies easily.

With this, they part, Sheila Robertson returning to her beach chair and Crane striding away from her. He gets thirty feet from her position when he hears the cold, metallic sound of the briefcase locks being clicked open. It is odd and alien against the sound of waves and gulls, but not half so odd as the sound of pressurized air escaping the briefcase.

"What the--"

Crane cannot help but turn to look over his shoulder and admire his handiwork as a spiral of toxic green gas swirls in the wind.

Sheila Robertson, in her aqua and green print bikini, collapses in the sand, screaming. It's a satisfying sort of sound, made all the sweeter by the fact that a faceful of fear toxin is nothing less than what the woman deserved.

Satisfied that Sheila Robertson's reward was just, Crane starts across the dunes again, slipping his hands in his pockets and whistling.


End file.
